


Dinner of Losers

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Grocery Store, Arguing, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Benny is so Done, Cop Benny, Explicit Language, Firefighter Dean, Firefighter Gadreel, Firefighter Sam, First Meetings, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Sick Castiel, Sick Character, Sick Character(s), Sick Dean Winchester, Single Parent Castiel, Single Parent Dean, Soup, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 01:45:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His mouth’s watering for the first time in a week, and his stomach’s actually speaking to him rather than making those gurgling, Gremlin-like noises. </p><p>His cold clammy hand wraps around the aluminum body just as another yanks it out from underneath him. </p><p>“Excuse me,” Dean protests, because twenty-seven hours on decongestants grows him an extra set of balls, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dinner of Losers

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt by http://prophetresources.tumblr.com/ (from a masterpost by http://perfectlyrose.tumblr.com ):
> 
> We’re both sick and we both grabbed for the last can of soup at the store au

 

 

“Jesus, you look like roadkill that dry humped the burning pavement one too many times.”

Dean lunges for the tissue box on the other side of the couch as a torpedo of snot flies out his left nostril. He blows, but that only puffs his head like a blowfish. “Yeah, you’re lookin’ good too, Benny,” he gripes.

“Seriously?” says Benny, snatching the remote out of Dean’s hands, and, before Dean can vaguely justify why he’s watching Dr. Sexy M.D _.,_ shuts the television off.  Dean can’t even recall the last time he went in for work. Last week? Yesterday? The days are more fluid than they usually are, unlike the scourging pressure in his head. “If you think I’m gonna nurse you back to health after a fake dispatch—”

“How did you know that was me?”

Benny’s stark blue eyes taper. “‘Hello, 911, someone’s breakin’ into my ranch an’ mutilatin’ all my cattle’? Dean, you used the same line when we were kids to crank call Crazy Creaser.”

“How else was I supposed to get your attention?” Dean asks, using his sniffle to his advantage. Benny’s unamused. “Look, I didn’t call for a bedtime story, alright? I just need you to drive me to the store so I can get some food.”

Benny’s sausage arms fold over his chest. “What happened to the gumbo Liz made last night?”

“Let’s just say it’s traveling through the bowels of the sewer easier than it did me. Besides, you can’t expect me to eat rabbit food forever. I’m a warrior, you know that. I have people to save, fires to fight—”

Before Dean can finish, a static-laced voice comes through Benny’s interphone: “ _Laffite, do you come in? It’s Officer Walker, we have reason to believe the dispatch you received might’ve been a crank call.”_

“Ace work, Detective,” Benny retorts without a pinch of humor.

“Heya, Gordon,” Dean greets as he places a damp washcloth to his sweat-dampened head.

Gordon’s laugh comes through clear as the water in his fridge Dean should be drinking more of: “ _Winchester. Oh man, Benny, you’re whipped like Ana Steele’s ugly step—”_

There’s a click, and then, not forgetting the overly dramatic sigh, Benny’s arms fall to his sides, “ _One_ ride to the grocers. No detours. An’ you’re ridin’ in the back.”

“You act like it’s my first time in the back of a police car.” Dean says, smiling as wide as he can with a slightly puffy upper lip.

**

It’s evident Dean hasn’t been out of his two-bedroom since the Renaissance Age—or, as he likes to call them, the good ole days, because when you caught a cold back then, you just died—because there’s _way_ more soup flavors than he remembers. Some are rather… inventive, and some plain awesome. Catching his crusted emerald eye is Meaty Cheeseburger, and how damn lucky he is reaching for the last can on a shelf of off-brand, reject flavors.

His mouth’s watering for the first time in a week, and his stomach’s actually speaking to him rather than making those gurgling, Gremlin-like noises.

His cold clammy hand wraps around the aluminum body just as another yanks it out from underneath him.

“Excuse me,” Dean objects, because twenty-seven hours on decongestants grows him an extra set of balls, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The man in question tosses Dean _that_ look, like _he’s_ the one stealing from the sick. Dean can’t quite see his face, though, so he grabs him by the shoulder with one hand, swiveling him around, and expertly snatches the can out of his hand with his other.

The guy stares him down with eyes stormier than the Sonoran Desert in September. If they aren’t under large, low-hanging fluorescents, Dean would’ve mistaken the flash in his eyes for lightening.

He doesn’t say anything, not until after he wipes his clown-red nose on the sleeve of his trenchcoat and inhales what sounds like a whole aquarium through his nose. “I _was_ going attempt to breathe again,” he challenges with a raspy voice, “but I think I’d rather waste my breath calling you out for being the complete asshole you are.”

“ _I’m_ the asshole?! You snatched it out of my hand first!”

“Really?” the man snorts, though probably not intentionally, given their states. “You’re playing _that_ card?”

“What card?”

“The he-did-it-first card. Everyone with the intellect of a five-year-old knows that trick.”

That does it so good for Dean, he marinates the can with his tongue, marking every possible area with his abominable scent. “Ha! You still want it now?”

“You think that’s gonna stop me?” the man scoffs, lunging for the can. “Please, I have a two-year-old.”

Dean jumps back and puts his other hand in front of the man in warning. “I have a seven-year-old _and_ I single-handedly raised my brother until he was seventeen. He’s the one who got me sick, actually. I told Sam not to come into work; the kid could barely make it down the pole without slicking it up with his snot—”

“Wait, did you say Sam? Sam Winchester?”

Dean squints at him like a man twice his age and vain. “Yeah,” he says warily, “how—?”

“Because _my_ brother’s the one who got me sick,” he says, laughing, “I’m Castiel Novak. My brother’s Gadreel. He’s on your crew, right? Tall, built, has a face that always looks like he’s constipated with murderous rage?”

“Gadreel’s your _brother?_ ” Dean breathes. _“_ Sam’s always hanging out with him; sometimes I swear they’re one person. Gadreel seems alright, but he’s scary—no offense.”

“None taken. He’s beaten me up plenty of times when we were kids.”

“With a Kung-Fu grip like yours, I find that hard to believe.”

Dean can’t be sure if Cas is getting a fever like he is, or if it’s a blush. Either way, it suits him. “What can I say? I’m serious about my cheeseburgers.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Dean chuckles. He looks down at the slimy object in his hands, and can’t remember why it’s so valuable. He flips it in his hand a couple times before handing it to Cas. “You can have it. That is, if you meant what you said about not being germaphobic.”

Cas’s mouth runs a few times, and Dean’ eyes the mistake of straying south towards his large, chapped lips. “Oh, I meant it, believe me, I’d eat a burger off the sidewalk, but I—”

“Would rather have a _real_ burger with me at Biggerson’s this Sunday?” Dean finishes before his motor of a mouth can stall.

Nope, that’s _definitely_ a blush on Cas’s face. “I… no, that’s not—I mean I don’t even know your name.”

“Dean,” he replies as the can clatters to the tile.

Cas shakes the hand offered to him with a big, gummy smile and, well, that’s more potent than any cold and flu medicine on the market.


End file.
